xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: my apologies that it's sooooo late!
Dustfinger's cheering section: "Possessed snake lady"? I like it! It's alright if I use it as the chapter title, right?
nekuranekomegami: I'm glad you like it. AWESOME! :)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Possessed Snake Lady
Harry walked with Hermione and Evangeline some way before Hermione stopped. Harry glanced at her as Evangeline looked over with curiosity. Hermione looked deep in thought.
"How are we going to find Bathilda's house?"
Harry frowned, not having thought of that. They continued down the lane until he stopped, staring at a dark mass that stood at the end of the row of houses. Was that . . ?
"Harry? What do you think? Harry?"
He didn't answer as he sped up, dragging Hermione and Evangeline with him. Both slipped a little on the ice, but only Evangeline lost her grip and toppled over with a muffled shriek.
"Harry -!"
"Look . . . Look at it, Hermione!"
"I don't . . . oh!"
Evangeline scrambled to them, shooting him a dirty look, before they looked at what he was staring at. It was a cottage, the rubble lay scattered amongst the waist high grass. The right side of the top floor seemed to have been entirely blown apart; he was sure that was were the curse had backfired. Covered in dark ivy and snow it was an eiry sight, seeing the home that his parents . . . his parents died in. He swallowed the thick lump that formed in his throat and approached the cottage.
"Why is it like that?" asked Evangeline. "Why has no one repaired it?"
"Maybe you can't," said Harry, "like when injuries from Dark magic and you can't repair the damage." He reached out and touched the gate.
"You're not going inside? It looks unsafe, it might - oh, Harry, look!" Hermione said.
Harry looked down, following the gaze of Hermione's as a sign rose from the snow covered ground. Evangeline covered her mouth in surprise, her eyebrows rising up into her hairline. There were golden letters upon the wood, that said:
On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard
ever to have survived the Killing Curse.
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left
in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters
and as a reminder of the violence
that tore their family apart.
Harry felt his mouth drop. As he read the words and the graffiti written with it. Encouraging words from people who had visited this very spot. A slow smile spread across his face as Hermione shook her head.
"It's brilliant! I- . . ." he broke off as the sound of shuffling feet reached his ears. Turning Harry saw a figure hobbling up the lane, silhouetted by the bright lights in the distant square. He could barely tell that it was a woman, but by the stoop of her shoulders and slowness of her walk it gave the impression of great age. Evangeline gripped his arm tightly, wariness in her eyes as the old woman approached. Her blue eyes slid to meet his green ones, and she gave the barest shake of her head.
He pressed his lips together, willing her to stay silent. Hermione moved closely next to him, he saw her reach discretely for her wand. The old woman stopped a short distance away and gazed at the house. If she was a muggle she would not have been able to see it. Harry thought it was safe to conclude that the woman was indeed a witch.
The woman then raised a gloved hand and beckoned them. They paused all glancing at each other, and the woman beckoned again. Evangeline was backing away, her eyes desperately telling him to not go to the woman.
"Are you Bathilda?" he asked suddenly. Hermione gasped, startled.
The woman nodded and beckoned again. Harry looked back at Hermione and Evangeline.
"Well?"
Hermione gave a small nod, but Evangeline stood rooted, staring at the woman. Harry grabbed her arm, jerking her attention back to him. She vigorously shook her head. He sighed. Taking her unwilling arm he turned back to the woman, Bathilda, and followed her as she hobbled back down the road.
She led them past several houses before turning in at a gate and leading them to a house at the end of an overgrown garden. She fumbled with the door before pushing it open in a jerking fashion and stepped back to let them pass.
Evangeline struggled against his grip, as they went past the her. Either she smelled bad or it was her house. Harry pushed Evangeline in and wrinkled his nose. Hermione followed with a similar expression.
As he gazed about his surroundings he saw that the house was in need of a good clean. Books littered the floor and were stacked up against walls and any surface. The air was almost foul, or putrid. Evangeline covered her nose with her arm, gazing around the space as well. Disgust written all over her pale face. He didn't blame her.
Bathilda peered at his face. He realized how tiny and bowed she was compared to them, her knuckles blue and mottled with age. Her eyes thick with cataracts and sunken into her face, in the fold of transparent skin. Her moth eaten black shawl, covered her unwashed clothes.
"Bathilda?" he repeated.
She nodded. Then the locket, on his chest began to heat. Almost pulsing like the ticking of a clock. It seemed to hiss, if he listened close enough. Like a snake speaking Parseltongue. He glanced at Evangeline, knowing that she could speak it, to see if she could hear what he was hearing.
Her eyes were trained on his chest, her breathing in short uneven takes, as she listened. Slowly she raised her eyes to his, and he saw fear. She could hear the Horcrux too.
Bathilda shuffled past him, pushing past Hermione and Evangeline as if not seeing them, and went into another room: Evangeline looked away.
"I don't think this is a good idea, Harry," Hermione said nervously.
"I really don't see a little old woman being any trouble," he said.
"Come!" called Bathilda from the other room. Evangeline twitched nervously.
"It's okay," he reassured them, before leaving the room. They followed him glancing around. It seemed that the deeper they went into the house, the more rank it became. Like meat gone bad in summer heat. Bathilda began to try and light some candles, seeming to have forgotten that she was a witch that could do magic. He frowned as she fumbled with the matches.
"Let me do that," he offered. She watched him as he lit the candles around the dark room. When he was done, he noticed a chest of drawers were old picture frames rested, covered in dust. But it was the photograph in the back that caught his eye. He picked it up, looking at the golden-haired thief who had perched on Gregorovich's windowsill, smiling lazily up at him.
"Who is this man, Miss Bagshot?"
Bathilda gave him a vague look, turning her eyes from Hermione, who had lit a fire in the fireplace, to him.
"Who is this man?" he repeated slowly, "Do you know who this is?"
"Harry," Hermione said, "what are you doing?"
"He's the thief Hermione. The one who stole from Gregorovich!"
Bathilda picked up one of the lit candles in a shaky hand. She shuffled around the dust covered table, covered in old moldy plates, and to the stairs. He turned and followed her, climbing up after her.
"Harry!" came Evangeline's worried voice. He ignored her and continued up the stairs into a small dark room that, if possible, smelled worse than the rooms below. He raised his wand.
"Lumos," he muttered. The tip of his wand grew bright and he started as Bathilda grew close to him.
"You are Potter?" she whispered.
"Yes."
She nodded slowly, and he turned away from her. The Horcrux seemed to beat faster and faster against his chest.
"Have you got anything for me?" he asked over his shoulder. Raising his wand, he looked at the pictures hanging on the walls. The Horcrux jumped against his skin and the room seemed to disappear for an instant. A high cold voice spoke sending a jolt down his spine: Hold Him!
"Have you got anything for me?" he repeated, swaying as the room came flooding back. Not sure at what had just happened. He heard the sound of of crackling, a choking noise and he looked up. The mirror before him showed the reflection of Bathilda, her eyes sinking deeper into her head. Her flesh seemed to shrivel right before his eyes.
Harry whirled around and stumbled against the set of drawers. He watched as the skin of Bathilda Bagshot fell to the ground. Out came a snake of massive size, and it struck him as he raised his wand to defend himself. He was knocked into a heap of dirty clothes as the tail crashed into the mirror, sending the broken shards everywhere.
A piece cut his cheek, and he rolled out of the way again as the tail came at him.
"Harry?" he heard Hermione called from below. He could hear feet running up the narrow stairs. He wanted to yell at them to run, get out of here. But he found that his voice was trapped in his throat, and all he could do was roll out of the way of the snake.
"Confringo!" Evangeline's voice cut through the air. Her spell bounced off the snake as she had finally made it to the top of the stairs. It shot around the room, smashing furniture.
Harry was hit with a coil of the snake, it smashing into his face. As he raised his wand, he saw Hermione scramble to him. But the searing white hot pain in his scar made him double over. Above the screams he heard himself yell.
"He's coming! He's coming!"
He grabbed onto her, dragging her across the room to Evangeline. A long red line across her cheekbone as she fought off the snake. He grabbed her hand. He pulled both girls along with him, as the pain seemed to build ten fold in his head.
He knew he was screaming. The pain seemed to grow and rip through his body . . . it burned like fire . . . he willed it to stop. Anything, anything. He was still screaming. Harry's grip was like iron on Hermione and Evangeline. Evangeline couldn't help but to cry out. Hermione had tears running down her cheeks . . . then . . .
It was dark, the night, wet with rain. Two muggle children skipped by in Halloween costumes . . . And he was gliding along with a sense of purpose and power . . . he was powerful and triumphant. He was nearly there, yes.
He fingered his wand beneath his robes . . . one movement and the children would be dead but that . . . was not necessary.
His destination lay ahead, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they did not know that yet . . . they wouldn't see it coming.
They had even left the curtains open, fools. He saw them in their sitting room; a tall black-haired man in his glasses, making blue puffs erupt from the end of his wand for the amusement of a black-haired boy in blue pajamas. The door opened and the mother entered . . . her long dark red hair falling over her face. The father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down on the sofa and stretched, yawning . . .
The gate creaked as he open it and went up the path. But James Potter did not hear. His wand was drawn and the door flew open.
He was past the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was all so easy, wandless, fools . . .
"Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"
It was all so laughable.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light filled the hall and James Potter was not more. His lifeless body falling to the ground with a dull thud.
He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but if sensible had a way out . . . He ascended the stairs, listening with amusement at her feeble attempts to barricade herself in . . . how stupid they were . . . how pathetically trusting and naive.
He thrust the door open with his wand . . . she stood with the child in her arms, but she dropped him into the crib and held her arms wide as if shielding him.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
"Stand aside, you silly girl . . . stand aside!"
"Not Harry, please no, take me instead, kill me instead-"
She wanted to die? He could grant her that, foolish woman. Green light flashed onces more and she dropped like her husband. Eyes open and unseeing. The child had not cried all this time: He stood in his crib clutching the bars and staring him in the face.
He pointed his wand at the child's young interested face. He wanted to see this. But now the child was crying and that made him angry. He could never stomach the small ones whining at the orphanage . . .
"Avada Kedavra!"
And then he was no more . . . .
"No," he moaned.
He had killed the boy, yet he was the boy . . .
"No . . ."
Now he stood in Bathilda's house, the great snake slithering over the glass covered floor . . . he looked down, and saw what pleased him greatly. The thief he was looking for . . .
"Harry! Harry? Harry!" called Evangeline's frantic voice. Harry wanted to tell her he was alright, but he felt like his eyelids were as heavy as rocks. He wanted to tell them that he was Harry, not Voldemort. He was Harry, just Harry. The small boy who lived under the stairs.
"Harry? Please wake up. Harry?" came Hermione's voice. But everything faded to darkness.
"Harry?"
I know, kinda somber and sad. Next chapter:
Ron's back . . . does Evangeline forgive him? And what next, SNATCHERS?
Feedback and ideas are always welcomed! So Review and I hope you enjoyed! Sorry for the lateness everyone, but life is busy! I'll try to post when I can. Mainly on Saturday's!
~CHAO